


Interview With The Ad Man

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, No Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-16
Updated: 2005-06-16
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brain speaks...





	Interview With The Ad Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

_Author's notes: This is a tremendous departure for me and I hope the fans will give me a little break on it, because I've done something here I never thought I would- I inserted myself into the story. You see, Brian has this nasty habit of showing up in the shower with me. No, it's nothing sexual, obviously, but he just starts talking to me when I have those few minutes of quiet time. Night before last he did it again, only he couldn't seem to settle down as he usually does, and just _say_ what he wanted me to hear. Finally, I suggested that he simply allow me to interview him in a very straightforward manner. He agreed and this is the result._

* * *

"Thanks for talking with me tonight."

"Sure. Whatever." He takes a swallow from the amber liquid in the Tom Collins glass he holds.

"Anything you want to say or ask before we get started?"

"Yeah."

I wait, eyebrows raised in question, fingers poised over the keyboard to catch every word.

"Who's gonna read this?"

"Umm... Brian Kinney fans." I can't tell him QAF fans will read it because if he knows he's a fictional character, and I'm not at all sure he does, he's in heavy denial about it. I guess I would be, too, if I found out I was a figment of someone else's imagination.

"Yeah, no shit." He rolls his eyes dramatically. "I mean, how many people? A lot?"

"I honestly can't say, there's no real way to tell."

"Then guess."

"Maybe a hundred. Maybe less. Most of them won't comment, some will."

"A hundred?" He seems disappointed.

"Maybe less."

"Then why do you bother?"

"Mostly because I enjoy it. Also because you never shut up and sometimes you force the issue, make me sit down and write it out."

This generates a smirk.

"Anything else?" I ask. "Or should I go ahead and start asking my questions?"

He motions at me with his glass.

"Shoot."

"Ok, then. You had something you wanted to talk to me about tonight. Would you like to tell me what it is?"

"Not yet. You're going to have to work a lot harder than that for it."

"I figured. I just thought maybe you'd cut me some slack and I could get to bed at a reasonable hour for a change."

This makes him laugh out loud.

"If I'm up, you're up."

"Right." I check my list of questions, deciding simply to begin at the top and work from there.

"Let's start with your career. You're an ad man. Can you tell me what that entails?"

"I convince people who can't afford it to open their wallets and shell out for products they don't need."

"And that's what makes you happy?"

"That's what makes me money."

"A lot of it, apparently."

He shrugs noncommittally.

"Do you ever find yourself conflicted about that, about making people want things they don't need and can't afford?"

"What, like a moral thing?"

I nod.

"No fucking way. If some poor schmuck wants to lay down cash he doesn't have, that's his problem. My job is to make my clients look good. I do that _very_ well."

"Do you like the people you work with? Your employees?"

"What's to like? They do what I tell them to and I pay them. Handsomely. And if they don't do what I tell them to, I shitcan them. There's no 'liking' about it. It's business."

"But you hire friends of yours, right?"

"Wrong. I hire people who can do the job I require of them. If I happen to know them in my personal life, too, then..." He trails off with a shrug.

"Have you ever considered hiring Justin?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have."

"Why haven't you?"

"Partly because he hasn't fucking finished school yet. Mostly it's cos it would get too complicated."

"At home? Or at work?"

"Exactly." He grins at me, swirling the last inch of his drink around and around. He seems relaxed, giving me a chance to look him over. Beautiful as ever. Long and boneless form, lean legs crossed gracefully in faded jeans, elbows resting comfortably on the arms of his chair as if he's sitting on a throne.

"Have you ever thought of doing anything else?"

"For a living?"

"Sure."

A wry smile ghosts across his face.

"You want to hear my childhood dreams?" The sneer is evident in his voice. I ignore it.

"Sure. Or even adult dreams?"

He settles into his chair, taking my question more seriously that I expect.

"I dunno. I have hobbies but nothing I'd ever try to turn into a career."

"You have hobbies?" I completely fail at hiding my surprise. "Besides fucking, drugs and booze?"

The smirk is back.

"Well, those top the hit parade, pretty much in that order, too, but yeah, I have hobbies. Doesn't everyone?"

"Can you tell me about your hobbies? What are they?"

"I take a lot of pictures. In fact, I collect cameras. Old ones, new ones. I'm sort of obsessed with it, actually."

"Seriously? There are no cameras evident at the loft."

"They fuck with the design element, so they're put away. Keeps my considerable investment in them safer, too. I hate clutter."

"Any other hobbies?"

He considers this for a moment and then his face lights up in a rakish smile.

"Sex toys."

I know he's trying to shock me, but with my own collection of toys, it's unlikely there are any he has that I haven't already bought, tried and worn out.

"Actually, that's really Justin's hobby. But I indulge it for _his_ sake."

"Very magnanimous of you, I'm sure he's grateful."

"Beyond words."

Since the subject of Justin has been broached and since I'm also pretty sure he's the reason Brian called for this little heart-to-heart in the first place, I decide to take the plunge.

"So then, let's talk a little about your private life, if you don't mind?"

He doesn't respond but shifts in his chair, his jaw tightening noticeably.

"You look uncomfortable."

"I'm fine. Great." He flashes a patented Brian Kinney shit-eating grin. "Fabulous!"

I wonder which one of us he's trying to convince.

"Tell me a little about Justin."

He sips from his drink, his eyes darting to a spot over my head and then back to my face again before dropping to the glass clenched in his hand. Yeah, something is definitely on his mind.

"What do you want to know?"

"He's an artist. Do you think he's any good?"

His face brightens suddenly with what I can only describe as parental pride.

"Yeah, he's good. He's fucking brilliant, actually. He has a hell of a career ahead of him."

"Yet you don't have any of his art hanging in the loft." I glance around as if to make my point.

"He says he'd be embarrassed to wake up every day and see his stuff on the walls, so he won't let me put anything up. I do have something, though. He doesn't know I kept it... want to see?"

I sit up, my interest piqued.

"I'd love to see it!"

He stands and disappears into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a small sculpture in his hands. He's cradling it like it cost him millions to acquire. He passes it to me, his eyes glowing.

I study it carefully, awed by the intimacy of the piece. It's a wooden carving, small but heavy, probably an exotic hardwood of some kind. It depicts two male bodies, kneeling entwined in an intense embrace. One figure flows seamlessly into the other so that you can hardly distinguish which limbs belong to which man. The larger figure has the smaller one wrapped to him tightly, his head bowed almost reverently. They've been carved so that the grain of the wood becomes part of them and vice versa, helping to tell the story of their interconnectedness. The piece has been darkly stained and shellacked to a high gloss.

It evokes passion and lust, but mostly profound love.

I realize I've been holding my breath as I turn the piece in my hands. The wood almost feels warm to the touch.

I pass it gently back to him, watching his face as he holds it.

"Fuck, Brian."

For a moment I am struck dumb. He seems to be as well. Finally I gather my wits.

"I had no idea he worked in wood, that he could carve."

"Yeah, it was a surprise to me, too." His voice has dropped almost to a whisper and I lean forward to catch each word. "He had to take this class in sculpting and they were given a choice of media to do it in. He choose wood, he said, to try and gain more control over his right hand. He hated the class, swears he'll never carve again, but..." He suddenly runs out of words and just sits, sliding his fingers gently over the piece.

"Where is he, tonight, Brian?"

He clears his throat, his eyes still locked on the art in his hands.

"Working. He... has to work."

He looks up at me, his face completely open.

"He doesn't need the money, you know. He'll never need money, as long as I... It's not about money, for him."

I nod, showing him silently that I understand. His eyes drop once again to the piece in his hand.

"It's all about the work."

"But where _is_ he?"

He swallows hard before answering.

"Where every great artist should go to find himself. Venice." His words are laced with quiet pain and admiration.

"For how long?"

"Maybe a year. Maybe longer." He shrugs.

_God._

"And you miss him." I make it a statement of fact.

"Fuck," he laughs, "I envy him. He's probably getting his dick sucked right now by some beautiful dark-skinned Italian boy with smoldering eyes and a hot accent." He's covering himself. Smoke and mirrors, always smoke and mirrors.

"Brian," I urge quietly.

"Yeah. Ok? Yeah." His hands still, finally, on the carved figure he holds. "I miss him."

"Brian." I'm not sure how to ask, so I just put it bluntly. "What did you want to tell me tonight?"

He swallows again, looks away, looks at his hands, looks at my face, looks away again. He uncrosses his legs, and blinks slowly before resettling into his chair, locking his eyes with mine. He's ready to tell me now.

"That I'm a bad person."

I'm stunned; this is _not_ what I expected him to say.

"What?"

"I'm a bad per- a bad _partner_ "

"Why do you think so?"

"Because this time... I didn't want him to go. I almost told him so, too, can you fucking believe that?" His voice is so quiet now.

I smile gently.

"Brian, that doesn't make you a bad person _or_ a bad partner. It makes you human."

He shakes his head angrily in negation.

"Then why didn't you ask him to stay?"

"Because with me," he strains forward in his chair, as if he can shove the words into my head by force, "it's all about _him._ "

I barely manage to swallow my gasp before it slips out.

"What is?" 

_"Everything."_

"Everything?"

"Yeah, everything. Everything I do. It's about him. I mean, there's my work, I do that for me, but... he's so... fuck, he's so wrapped around everything I do... that it becomes all about him even when it isn't. We don't... we're not... I don't hold him back, ever. Whatever he needs is what I want him to have, do you get it?"

Christ, I think I might cry but I know that would make him shut down, stop talking, so I just nod mutely, instead.

"So I didn't ask," he concludes. "I'll never ask."

We both stare at the figurine in his hand and I wonder if one day he will have worn the finish clean off of it.

"You know," I say finally, as casually as possible, "there is something you can do."

"I know what you're thinking. Don't even say it."

"Why not"? I raise my eyebrows in question.

"He doesn't fucking need me there getting in his way. That's not how things work between us."

Understanding dawns on me.

"He's asked you to come, hasn't he?" Of course he has. He wouldn't be Justin if he hadn't.

"What the fuck does he know about what he needs right now? He thinks it's me he needs, he thinks I'm his 'muse' or whateverthefuck, but the last thing he needs is me hanging around, stifling him."

I sigh heavily.

"Will you ever let him grow up and make his own decisions about what he wants in his life?"

A change settles over him slowly. His posture straightens, his eyes grow distant and he crosses his legs again in an obvious signal that he's closing up again. I watch sadly, wondering if he'll grow up soon, too.

"Lemme guess," I say, "you have a date and I need to get the hell out of here."

"How'd ya know?" The shit-eating grin is back and brighter than ever. 

I'll get nothing more from him tonight and as I leave, knowing that there is no date and that he'll actually be spending his night alone, at home, I say a silent prayer that he'll come back and invade my shower again soon. I've grown rather fond of him.

* * *

The only way to view the sequel, because it's graphics-based, is by going to my journal at: [Your Life Is Calling](http://www.livejournal.com/users/msjudi/43292.html#cutid1)...


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